


Carnelia

by Nothing (Karinpon), Sexsuna



Category: Original Work
Genre: Anal, Anal Sex, Anal consumption of alcohol, Cannibalism, Crossdressing, Drunkenness, Fantasy, Fellatio, Forced Crossdressing, Fungal growths, Homosexuality, Immortality, M/M, Male Homosexuality, Multi, Oral, Rape, Torture, Vampires, Weirdness, cocksucking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-01
Updated: 2015-08-01
Packaged: 2018-04-12 11:36:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,175
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4477814
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Karinpon/pseuds/Nothing, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sexsuna/pseuds/Sexsuna
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>One day there descends upon the impoverished kingdom of Faggeria a strange hideous shadow, the servants of which demand a peace offering in the form of the king's heir... (2010)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Carnelia

 

The centenarian king of Faggeria had begotten only a single male child by the hour his utter decrepitude and infertility had set in; the boy was named Cameron III, after his six-times-great-grandfather Cameron II--the last in a line of ancestors who were nobles of another, more reputable land--and the King had high hopes for him indeed, hopes that he would steer the lineage once again towards the reputed greatness of generations long past. Thus, a paroxysm of despair ravaged his poor old heart on that singular, cloud-shadowed day--that day dark as night, whereon his kingdom was invaded from the heavens by that daemoniac flying fortress.

It seemed as a typical thunderstorm at first--but as the hours went by, it would not subside--and indeed, all of the clouds seemed to swirl together at a high point in a single, dark mass; they then birthed the unnatural silhouette of a castle in the sky--and a second, smaller and more indistinct silhouette which had been seen to descend to the King’s own land.

A quarter of all farmland had been set aflame rather abruptly, and peasants came bursting into the throne room (for there were never an adequate number of guards on duty) with wild tales of gorgeous, superpowered arsonists demanding the highest heir of Faggeria’s throne to be handed over to their dark lord in his lofty castle, as a peace offering. 

 

**I**

  
“Surely there is a better way!” said son to father, “I implore you to consider more reasonable alternatives, such as war!”  
  
The King again explained to his son at length, that Faggeria had no army, and that their invaders were scarcely human at all--that they were, by all accounts, otherworldly supermen with monolithic flying vessels; incomparable and, in a word, superior, to the sum of all the world’s own warmachines. Also prevalent, he continued in a more ominous tone, were comparisons of these invaders to the blood-sucking Vampires of legend, which they themselves encouraged.  
  
“A puerile scare tactic based off of common superstitions.” the Prince retorted, “And anyway, I’m not a suitable offering--dark lords only want Princesses, whereas I am a--”  
  
“They did not say that!” the King interjected, “The highest heir was requested, and you are the only heir; it will be the death of our line, which I had such high hopes of preserving...restoring...and those hopes all rested with you, so don’t think I am making my decision lightly! The Vampires possess unmatchable destructive powers, we have seen, and their Lord has requested you with the threat of fully employing these powers against our very civilisation!”  
  
The Prince considered his father’s outburst gravely before responding; “...But as a man, I simply cannot give myself over to him; it’s disgraceful...humiliating! And we can be sure, this powerful Lord will find it an insult to be presented with a same-sex peace-token.”  
  
“Worry not,” the King said, “for our court has the greatest tailors, beauticians and aesthetes known to the world, so that you shall not go to him as a man.”  
The room fell silent, and before the Prince could work out the implications of what was said to him, he was apprehended by two muscle-bound goons in the employ of his father--his scrawny build made struggle useless, and he was carried amidst shouts and yelps down to the castle’s seldom-used basement-dungeon.  
  
The dungeon had been ill-kept--every surface bore a thick coat of dust, every corner an inane network of abandoned spider silk, so that the goons were driven to cough--but their grip only grew tighter. Down two flights of stairs they had gone--the first room held dismal prisoner cells occupied only by the occasional rodent, and at the end of the second flight down laid the torture chamber; a cold, candle-lit room with a dripping ceiling and the sound of a stream far overhead; in its centre was a wooden table with restraints--roughly a horizontal crucifix in shape. At length, Cameron was undressed, then fastened to the table; first his ankles, then his wrists and neck, were all strapped down tightly--even his airway became constricted as a result, and he lost consciousness in the minutes that ensued as his captors fumbled out of sight. The operation could now commence.

 

**II**

  
Of all the dark lord Fagrath’s myriad concubines, only two could claim to have survived more than a week with him: Mizagi, whose head of violet hair bore an attractive, uneven fringe at the front and was tied up and teased at the back; and Mashirou, with his long hair of preternatural pink-on-blonde, cut bluntly above the eyes. Notwithstanding the daily, grotesque bodily tortures these two concubines suffered at the hands of their master, they had survived--not by dint of hardiness for sure--they were in fact blessed, unlike all the others, with immortality akin to the master’s own.  
  
As soon as their lord’s castle had cast its shadow upon the kingdom of Faggeria, these slender infiltrators alone descended via hot-air balloon, and went immediately to their days-long task of inspiring fear and delivering the sanguine lord’s only request--for a new servant taken from royal stock. The kingdom was largely undefended, and although the occasional peasant would attack the concubines with farming equipment at first, this quickly ceased upon mass realisation that no pain nor injury could be inflicted. The two invaders, who spent much of their time on land destroying property of the crown, and otherwise breaking into people’s homes and violating their persons in various ways, were soon met with Garlic, Crosses and Stakes; it was then that the legend of the Vampire was re-animated.

 

**III**

  
The Royal Stylist looked with astonishment upon his most valuable assignment yet; the King’s only son laid unconscious on the centre table, restrained miserably to be worked on. Guidelines given to the stylist by the King suggested the son was to be “feminised” and made “fit to be a lord’s bride”. The boy, he thought, was already rather effeminate; his face bore no unattractive shapes or proportions; he was tall, slender, and his head of fine, scarlet hair had been let to grow long. There was also very scant body-hair to remove, upon close inspection--a bit of rude stubble on the chin was cleaved off immediately, and with that, the real work could begin.  
  
To start, the hair was tied back, and makeup was tactfully applied to the face; much of the hair was then let loose at the fore, so that a handsome fringe could be trimmed from it, and the rest of the hair was parted and tied into two bunches. Next, clothes, already custom-made to correct measurements, were to be donned; the stylist, undoing restraints as needed, slipped first onto Cameron black, opaque stockings with garters; then came similarly-coloured satin undergarments and knee-high leather boots with tall, blocky heels.  
  
For the final step, Cameron was returned to partial consciousness and made to cooperate in a limited manner as a shimmering, black dress was slipped onto him--this article of clothing featured an above-knee pleated skirt starting down from the hip, and a corset-like portion for the torso, extending up into long sleeves, frilled at the shoulders and wrists--the opening for the neck was similarly sleeved, and frilled under the jaw.  
  
“It is complete! My masterpiece is complete!!” cried the hysterical stylist, and this brought Cameron to full consciousness, and awareness of his body.  
  
“W-what am I wearing?!”  
  
“Oh,” the stylist replied, “you did not know you had become my canvas?”  
The prince thought for a moment about his father’s last words to him before he had been dragged down and manhandled, and he grimaced.  
  
“So this is what that old fool meant...” he muttered whilst examining his person. “...As if this could fool anyone!”  
  
The hysterical stylist was visibly offended, and queried; “Have you a problem with my work? I do not lie, I did everything I could short of injecting fat into your chest and amputating your enormous phallus!”  
  
Enormous it indeed was, they both thought, and it was growing larger as they spoke; Cameron had noticed and blushed at the reference to it--had the stylist seen it?  
  
“I--d--your work is admirable enough,” he began meekly, “the only dead giveaway is my final vestige of manhood, which I have no desire to lose--but it grows and solidifies in the most precarious of situations...”  
  
“Aha!” the stylist exclaimed, “I can most certainly help you with that! After I give you a name--you can’t very well use your masculine name now, can you? I think...how about ‘Carnelia’?”  
  
“It is reasonably pretty.” the prince replied.  
  
“Carnelia you are!” said the stylist, and he sat upon a nearby stool.  
  
“But why ‘Carnelia’? It sounds like a mispronunciation of ‘Cornelia’.” the prince added.  
  
“Yes,” the stylist said, “that is what I meant!” He paused as if remembering something and continued, “But just looking at you, I could not resist a multitude of terribly Carnal thoughts, so the name is a natural--and to me, desirable--corruption.”  
  
“What do you mean... ‘Carnal thoughts’...?”  
  
“Try walking in your heels,” the stylist interrupted, “until you stand just about over me.”  
  
Carnelia considered protesting, for his swelling member made walking itself feel awkward, nevermind in high heels, but he realised then that he had walked half of the way lost in thought, and continued as instructed, until his groin was but inches from the hysterical seated man’s face.  
  
“Excellent, stay there.” he said. “Now show me your problem area.”  
  
“...My--wh--?”  
  
“Lift your skirt!” the man, clearly impatient, commanded. And after an uneasy pause the prince did as he was told, bringing up the front of his skirt, revealing satin panties stretched absurdly by a hard protuberance. Carnelia resigned himself to obedient silence thereafter, little more than shuddering as the stylist groped at his thighs and buttocks with large, cold hands, which soon freed his throbbing prick from its satin confines.  
  
“Oh my!” exclaimed the molester, “It’s even more terrific than I had imagined!” And meeting with no resistance, he held the tip between his fleshy lips and poked it with his tongue.  
  
Carnelia vocalised a squeak of excitement or surprise, shutting his eyes tightly and remaining still as the stylist brought the erection further into his mouth, washing it enthusiastically with saliva; moments later he began sucking deeply, and Carnelia moaned, beginning to thrust his hips forth. Carnelia placed his hands on the molester’s head as he issued forth one final thrust, accompanied by a flood of bittersweet nectar, and the seated man drank it readily.  
  
“It should shrink quickly to a concealable size.” he said, and proceeded to pull Carnelia’s panties back over it.  
  
Carnelia was exhausted and gave no audible reply, but fell forward on the man in a sort of embrace, perhaps accidental, and returned to slumber.

 

**IV**

  
Carnelia awoke as he was being handled again by the men who had carried him down to the dungeon; they were binding his wrists behind his back with thick rope.  
  
“What’s this now?” he asked, tired cynicism colouring his voice. The stylist and his father were there as well.  
  
“Gorgeous--” the king exclaimed, “I’ve never seen such a fine woman!”  
Had his father not heard him? Carnelia opened his mouth to ask again--what was the meaning of these new restraints? But before he could utter a word, the stylist brought a hand to his face and stifled it.  
  
“Isn’t it?” he answered the king, “Were he not otherwise destined, he should be stuffed and put on display this instant! Don’t you agree?”  
  
“Entirely!”  
  
The stylist turned towards Carnelia’s face, which bore a look of minor disgust and confusion, and he spoke;  
  
“You are wondering why we’ve tied you up again, right? It should be obvious--we can’t expect a package to go out on its own and arrive at its destination; you’re being bound for delivery--packaged, so to speak--and come nightfall, you will be transported to the sky castle via hot-air balloon, in the company of the venerable Lord Fagrath’s beloved concubines.” As he spoke, the goons bound Carnelia’s ankles together.  
  
“Concubines?” the prince managed to speak, “If I’m being delivered by something so lowly as concubines, what does that make me to the dark lord? What’s the point of all of this emasculating glamour?!”  
  
“Why not?” replied the stylist, “For you, too, will be a concubine! The lord of the flying castle has shewn your father this in prophetic dreams, which he has told to me. Isn’t that right?”  
  
“Yes,” said the king, now looking at his son. “Your future and the future of Faggeria are equally assured great prosperity should this transaction proceed as planned!”  
  
“You’re sick in the head!” the boy retorted, but he was ignored.  
  
“Here it is--” the stylist held up a small, black belt with a circular plug-hole in the middle. “Think of it as the ribbon on the gift box,” he said, fastening it to Carnelia’s face with little difficulty.  
  
Carnelia could not form words at all now, and the stylist removed the plug from the ring which held his mouth agape, leaving it to sway on a thin chain near the back of the device.  
  
“This is most presentable!” the king said, “Please excuse me whilst I make further preparations.” And he left.  
  
Immediately, the stylist laid his hands all over Carnelia, rubbing and groping, re-adjusting the clothing ever so slightly, as if to polish his work; he then snaked two bony fingers into Carnelia’s mouth and played with the tongue therein.  
  
“Aah,” he declared after a moment, “I wish I was not obligated to stop at my fingers--and that it would not be so apparent if I tested the other hole...” That said, he removed his fingers from Carnelia’s mouth and reapplied the plug.  
 

 

**V**

  
A good distance beneath the darkest of clouds that evening, the balloon was prepared to take off at short notice; Mashirou laid idly in the spacious basket as Mizagi waited just outside for the package to meet them.  
  
“Mizagi,” Mashirou called, awaiting a response before continuing.  
  
Seconds passed before the call was answered; “What is it now?”  
  
“Have you seen this one? Do you think it will live longer than the last?” Mashirou continued.  
  
“I have not seen it, but I hope this one lives forever--I fancy I may kill myself if you don’t find another preoccupation soon.”  
  
“That’s cruel! ...Besides, you don’t know how!”  
  
Silence dwelt for nearly a half-hour before Mizagi spotted the anticipated figures in the distance, marching nearer at a steady pace. Detail was visible shortly; at the fore was the fairly corpulent king of Faggeria, who with his aged and unsteady gait could not be but a hindrance to the figures close behind--the lanky stylist with whom they had once made acquaintance was walking backwards, his gaze fixed on what was presumably the new concubine, flanked by two abominable guardsmen.  
  
“They have arrived!” Mizagi cried. “I can tell from here that the new one will be to our lord’s liking.”  
  
“You exaggerate, no doubt!” retorted Mashirou, starting up to see as well.  
The package which greeted them without speaking was, much to their surprise, absolute in its beauty, though they thought its attire strange--concubines of the vampire lord Fagrath uniformly donned simple, black leotards and collars for the duration of their service (typically, the remainder of their life)--but it was not aesthetically unpleasant by any means.  
  
Soon they loaded the package--labeled ‘Carnelia’--onto the basket, and the three of them began their ascent without ceremony.  
  
“This is a queer muzzle they put on it,” Mashirou said after a while, pulling out the plug to reveal Carnelia’s quivering tongue. “It can’t speak with it on, but its mouth is open even so!”  
  
“The ascent will take a while,” Mizagi said, “perhaps we should become acquainted.”  
  
“Yes!” said Mashirou. “To start off, let us examine its genitals--”  
  
“So you can soil them yourself and ensure the lord discards the whole thing as useless again?” came Mizagi. “No, move aside--I will check.”  
  
Mizagi lifted Carnelia’s skirt, and more was not required--hardly contained by the undergarments, a prodigious example of the male sex organ met immediate identification.  
  
“It’s a man!” Mashirou yelled.  
  
“So it would seem,” replied Mizagi. “This is the first in a dozen or so that we’ve had even that much in common with!”  
  
“So where do we start?” asked Mashirou.  
  
“What do you mean by that?”  
  
“I mean--we can do things to this one if it’s male, right? I want to manipulate its phallus!”  
  
“Have at it then,” Mizagi said. “I could use some entertainment myself--the aperture in his muzzle is curiously inviting!”  
  
At once Mizagi pulled aside the crotch of his leotard to unveil his own swelling member, and brought it to touch Carnelia’s tongue, which was thrashing in futile protest; Mashirou had slipped the captive’s panties down to its knees, soon exacting a firm--somewhat painful--grip on its phallus. Carnelia yelped and began to struggle.  
  
“Stop that,” said Mashirou, “you’ll hurt yourself if you resist!” and his grip did not loosen--he began stroking as gently as the situation would allow.  
Mizagi clutched Carnelia’s head at last, turning it towards him, and he thrust his phallus fully into the helpless mouth with ease. Carnelia gagged for a moment, and tears began streaming down his face--Mizagi retracted his member to the tip before forcing it back in abruptly, and he made this action repetitive, continuous. Mashirou had begun digging his nails into Carnelia’s buttocks whilst suckling at the peak of his now-rigid member. Carnelia, perhaps panicking, nevertheless continued his struggle--which bore no fruit over the ensuing minutes save numerous, stinging scratches upon his supple flesh.  
  
Soon enough, he succumbed to his molestation, and sprayed his seed all over Mashirou’s face; seeing this, Mizagi reached his climax and ejaculated copiously into Carnelia’s throat--which could not help but swallow everything.  
  
“You idiot!” Mizagi bawled, surveying their captive. “You’ve scratched him all up--now he’ll certainly perish!”  
  
“Aren’t the wounds too superficial to kill him?”  
  
“That’s not what I meant... His condition is now scarcely presentable to our lord--his blood will be on your hands, both literally and figuratively!”  
Anon, they docked at the monolithic castle in the clouds, and guided the damaged package through the main gate into the courtyard, having yet to formulate any sort of explanation.

 

**VI**

  
The vast, moonlit courtyard featured two three-tiered fountains and benches of marble to either side of the cobbled walkway; and for vegetation, there were multitudes of ferns and fern-trees with black fronds. Betwixt the two elder concubines, Carnelia was guided along the walkway, having resorted to wearing a perpetual frown in the aftermath of his crude defilement--in this state he was also not too keen on facing the vampire lord Fagrath as had been described by the concubines. At length they approached a massive door set into a dark, stone wall--it opened inwards, inviting the trio to the abyssal space beyond.  
  
The edifice they entered was not so much of this world as the exterior appeared; torches burned green at the four corners, illuminating a central encirclement of low, iron fencing around a pool of the most unimaginably malodorous mulch, from which sprouted grotesque, phallic vegetables oozing sickly from their waist-high pinnacles; and the walls of the room were lined with oil paintings of androgynous youths engaged in a variety of bestial acts, with all manner of familiar and unfamiliar races, animals, and even obscene vegetation not unlike the centre-piece of the room. The three edged to the right and along the fencing until that side joined with the other in a wide avenue, which stretched only a couple of metres more before the gaping passage to what could not be but the throne room.  
  
This room was much larger, and a red carpet stretched over most of it--here were also several decorations similar to those in the previous room, now extending even into life-size sculptures of depravity, but Carnelia was satisfied to see that the queer plants had not been duplicated here as well. Massive cushions were littered about the room, some with more care than others, and Carnelia was allowed to rest on one as his escorts ventured out of sight, even deeper into the mad place, presumably to notify the dread lord Fagrath of his arrival.

 

**VII**

  
The vampire lord’s two concubines approached him meekly. Fagrath, contrasting his reputation as a vile monster, had the appearance of an attractive young man; his hair was silky and blonde, its length styled elegantly, and a silver tiara rested atop his head; his bodily attire consisted of a small, black dress, tailored from polished leather, and thigh-high boots of a similar material--the heels were not unlike Carnelia’s.  
  
“He has arrived, hasn’t he?” Fagrath asked.  
  
“Yes,” said Mizagi, without hesitation. “Mashirou has done you a great disservice, however, in marking his flesh with numerous ugly scratches.”  
At that moment, Mashirou angrily grabbed hold of the speaker’s arm and tried to crush it.  
  
“Even now he damages your property!” Mizagi shouted, struggling to save his arm.  
  
Fagrath was silent for a moment before speaking; “So that is all? It’s no grave concern--a few scratches will heal up rapidly when I have changed him.” That said, he opened a nearby cupboard and retrieved two large bottles of wine.  
“So how about we celebrate,” he said, “before I meet him.”  
  
Mashirou and Mizagi both fixed covetous eyes on the wine, and concurrently moved towards their master with relief and expectance.  
  
“But before either of you can drink,” Fagrath began, “you shall have to present to me your arseholes!”  
  
The concubines naturally complied, turning away from their lord and lowering themselves to elbows and knees with the buttocks raised high, providing ease of access to their holes. Fagrath set down the bottles and brought his hands to the raised posteriors before him, caressing and groping at the supple flesh.  
“The lacerations I inflicted here scarcely a week ago have healed up nicely, haven’t they? We can expect the same from your new peer shortly, but first--”  
He pulled aside the scant, elastic bottoms of their uniforms simultaneously, his forefingers soon finding their anal sphincters, where they rubbed and prodded until gaining entry. Shortly thereafter he had begun massaging their prostates, and they began wiggling their hips--Fagrath knew what this meant; their asses thirsted for more, so he retracted his fingers and, quickly, opened the bottles of wine he had set aside. Before the aroused concubines could formulate a question, the cold nozzles of glass bottles kissed their sphincters, sending a dreadful chill up their spines as the nozzles forced entry with brisk determination.  
  
“You will drink thusly!” Fagrath exclaimed.  
  
Though they remained still in strict obedience to their master’s wishes, the concubines were frightened indeed by this development: “Isn’t it deadly through that end?!” came Mizagi’s quivering voice, and Mashirou stared back nervously awaiting a response as well.  
  
“You will merely become extraordinarily intoxicated with greater rapidity,” answered Fagrath, pressing the bottlenecks in further. “Bottoms up!” he said, and he tilted the large bottles so that the wine began to drain steadily into their rectums.  
  
“It burns unbearably!!” cried Mizagi, and Mashirou seconded this with a loud yelp.  
  
“This is our celebration!” said Fagrath, and he swivelled the bottles around, adding to his concubines’ discomfort. The toxic liquid poured ceaselessly into their rectums, and as the bottle was nearly half-empty, they had both begun to sob; Mashirou, in addition, began to vomit uncontrollably upon the floor.  
“Do not soil my carpet!” Fagrath commanded, and he smacked Mashirou’s rear as he continued to vomit.  
  
“I’m dying...!” screamed Mizagi between harsh sobbing and dry heaves.  
“Such does not exist for you,” Fagrath retorted, “so you must already be more than a little intoxicated!”  
  
As the bottles were almost depleted, Mizagi had also begun to vomit uncontrollably--Mashirou had run out of contents to vomit not long prior, collapsing in worn-out drunken idiocy; Mizagi had just lost the ability to form any coherent speech between his paroxysms of violent illness. Once the bottles were empty, Mashirou had already lost consciousness and was sprawled on the floor in a pool of his own vomit; Mizagi remained on his elbows and knees. Feeling the celebration incomplete, Fagrath jerked the empty bottle violently from Mizagi’s orifice, tossing it aside; he then exacted a firm grip with both hands upon Mizagi’s hindquarters and moved his face in, proceeding to lap up the remnants of wine drivelling from the gaping anus. In due time, Fagrath felt his own, swollen phallus brushing his thigh, and he grabbed hold of it, proceeding to guide it directly into Mizagi’s arsehole. It slipped in slowly, with little effort, until it was fully enveloped, and Fagrath then began plunging his concubine’s depths violently--this went on for several minutes before Mizagi finally lost consciousness, and a while longer before Fagrath finally filled him to the brim with love-juices.  
  
Fagrath retrieved his member from the thoughtless body’s orifice, and exited the chamber, locking it behind him--he had to meet the new arrival alone.

 

**VIII**

  
A hand brushed Carnelia’s cheek gently, rousing him to consciousness. He found himself sprawled upon a large cushion; someone had removed that terrible device from his face, and, after shaking off the remnants of sleep, he began to take in the details of the figure looming over him; it was an attractive, blonde man, possessing a countenance infused with a similarly peculiar youthfulness to those of the concubines--another peer in the service of the vampire lord?  
  
“I am truly impressed--” the man started, “you are nearly exactly as perfect as your father led me to believe!”  
  
“You know my father?” Carnelia responded nervously, “Who are you--?”  
  
“Yes, I know your father;” the man said, “he and I have been making arrangements for a long time now. And ‘who am I’?--why, I am none but the lord of this castle! And you--you’re my new queen, or maid, or whore!”  
  
Being told all of this, Carnelia stewed in ambivalent emotion; many uncomfortable thoughts raced, too fast to catch any one of them for long-- “...What?”  
  
“You heard me!” the lord replied impatiently, “I am the vampire lord Fagrath!”  
  
“...But that’s impossible!” the prince gasped.  
  
“Is it, now?”  
  
“Yes! It’s obvious to anyone: you are short of stature, for one thing; your hair and face are effeminate, your musculature femininely pathetic; your voice is thin, soft...all in all, you are wholly unimposing--un-lord-like! You must be having a laugh--a concubine who is also a jester, correct?”  
  
The vampire lord Fagrath stared in disbelief; “C-c-conc-cubine...?!” he squealed, and began to stutter something else before remembering to maintain his composure.  
  
“...Y-you are quite right! Aren’t you a sharp one? The lord will no doubt love you.” he said, after gulping in some air. “Come, let us dine together whilst we await the lord’s arrival.”  
  
He lent a hand to help Carnelia to his feet and led the way to a heavy curtain in the wall, pulling a rope to draw it aside steadily. What the curtain hid was a spacious alcove, wherein a small, round table and two chairs resided; atop the table was a large, silver platter covered with a domed lid, and flanked by sets of eating utensils. With courteous gesticulations on Fagrath’s part, Carnelia was compelled to take a seat, and Fagrath did the same.  
  
“What is under this lid,” Carnelia inquired, “and how long has it been on this table?”  
  
“Oh, I made it while you were asleep,” the host replied, lifting the cover up and out of the way.  
  
Carnelia’s eyes grew wide and hungry; “It’s a ham!” said he, immediately brandishing fork and knife.  
  
“So you haven’t eaten in a while...?” Fagrath asked idly, but went unheeded as Carnelia had already stuffed his face full of the meat and was chewing vigorously.  
  
After a while, Carnelia ceased his shameful display of gluttony, and could not hold down a belch which was equally repellent in its uncouthness.  
  
“Aah...” he finally began to speak, “the meal was gratifying indeed, I could not eat another bite--but surely, there must be something to drink! My thirst is at least as powerful as this sudden warmth--this onset of drowsiness and comfort which causes my head to droop--so please, allow me something to drink before I die in my sleep of dehydration!”  
  
As Carnelia’s strength deteriorated, Fagrath rose to his feet and walked over; “I will personally quench your thirst,” he said, at that moment unveiling his half-flaccid prick. Carnelia was too weak to resist, and hardly offered a sob of protest, as his host squirmed fingers through his lips to pry his jaw agape, and thrust a phallus upon the threshold.  
  
“It so happens that my body is bursting at the seams with that which you require!” he teased, and shortly thereafter began urinating into Carnelia’s helpless mouth.  
  
From reflex, and the possible danger of not doing so in his present state of infirmity, he swallowed the hot liquid without hesitation--as this occurred, Fagrath was delighted, and his prick swelled with blood.  
  
“You have drunk copiously from my body!” he spoke excitedly, “Is it not fair, then, that I consume something of you?”  
  
Having said this, Fagrath took up from the table a silver spoon, and unceremoniously pushed it into Carnelia’s right eye-socket--it slipped in beneath his eyeball, and began to draw blood. Carnelia became so acutely aware of this heinous turn of events, that in his stupor he realised he must have been drugged--for he could react with nothing more pronounced than a futile grimace as tears rolled down his cheeks. The spoon dug deeper, the blood ran faster; the prince tasted copper and salt, and soon, he was half-blind.  
  
Carnelia’s right eye, slightly crushed, dangled from a strand of bloody nerve tissue. Carefully, Fagrath brought the spoon beneath the orb and carried it up to his lips.  
  
“I don’t think you’ll miss just one eye;” he said, “your loss of this should be far less crippling than that of some other parts I fancied...”  
  
And having spoken, he dropped the eye into his mouth, severing the optic nerve with a decisive bite, and swallowed whole.  
  
Carnelia’s remaining eye was fixed on the act, but he remained silent; he cried and bled ceaselessly, but his diaphragm had no strength to voice his agony, and consciousness was fading.  
  
“You must not fall asleep,” Fagrath shouted, “for I have yet to bestow upon you the gift reserved only for my most treasured slatterns!”  
  
At that moment Fagrath took hold of the bunches of hair which were tied up with ribbons at either side of Carnelia’s head--using this sort of handle, he manoeuvred the empty eye-socket over his erection and pulled abruptly. One-third of the phallus had then entered Carnelia’s skull--it would go no farther, but even then chills of pleasure crawled up Fagrath’s spine; the socket was adequately tight, warm and moist as blood continued to trickle out, providing lubrication for the manic impalement which soon became repetitive.  
For minutes this took place, and Carnelia uttered not a sound--not even as his skull was flooded with hot, viscous seed which gushed out over his face in profusion upon retraction of the member; amid tears of blood and come, he passed out. The vampire lord Fagrath leaned in over the defiled sleeper; “You will thank me when you awake,” he whispered, “for I am the fountain of youth eternal!” And with that, he re-attached the device which allowed access to the mouth yet stifled speech, for he had felt its removal a mistake in retrospect.

 

**IX**

  
Carnelia awoke in a reclining position upon a chair with a footstool; the room was warm and fragrant, his body bathed in a dim, green glow from the chandelier overhead--but as he surveyed the walls with his one eye, the memories flooded back, dispelling the pleasant atmosphere: this new room was lined with those obnoxious, twitching vegetables resting before and betwixt other deranged decor; three close walls collecting him opposite an interminable, black corridor evoked a sense of complete separation from all proper life--death to the sane world.  
  
“This is my study,” chimed his assailant, who had been sitting on a low table across from him, “I brought you here through the library.”  
  
Carnelia said nothing, for he was gagged, and Fagrath continued;  
“I have bestowed on you a precious gift for which you should--and will, no doubt--feel eternally grateful: the property of biological immortality. By Azathoth’s most gracious divine error, I was born with this property centuries ago; and for reasons unknowable, it is so that any male who receives my seed shall contract my condition.”  
  
Inattentively, Carnelia poked at the small sheet of plastic covering his empty eye socket--an eyepatch, it was cut like a triangle with two corners at the top, rounded.  
  
“Don’t you like it? I made it just for you to wear. Though any injuries you receive henceforth shall heal quickly, you will never regrow that eye.”  
The silent prince stared scornfully with his one remaining eye.  
  
“I anticipated that you would need some proof of your own immortality, so I have invited your peers to help you.”  
  
The elder concubines, Mashirou and Mizagi, emerged from the dismal corridor--they were shackled to each other at the left and right wrists respectively, and both donned blindfolds. They approached Carnelia clumsily, flanking him, and began sniffing and nuzzling at his neck and chest.  
  
“I have given them permission to indulge in you once more!” Fagrath said; he then removed the plug from Carnelia’s mouthpiece and shoved his tongue through the ring, a farewell kiss of sorts, before resigning himself to watchful non-participation in the ensuing merrymaking of his dearest pets.  
  
The two had begun teasing Carnelia’s bare flesh with their tongues; he was pinned to the chair by their combined weight, and it wasn’t long before they started at his nether regions with their hands and mouthes. Soon having freed his phallus, they wrapped it in the thin chain which linked their shackles--the sensitive organ was constricted and jerked violently at each motion of the concubines’ arms, which had begun frantic groping and scratching elsewhere. After a while, Mashirou had forced his tongue into Carnelia’s uncloseable gob whilst Mizagi’s teeth began drawing blood at the prince’s neck and upper-arm, and the entangled prick had changed to a miserable purple hue. Already Carnelia had begun to sob, but his assailants were far from through: Mizagi’s gnawing became hungry, canid in its ferocity, and the distraught prince felt pieces of his flesh begin to give; and Mashirou turned round, taking the viciously abused phallus into his mouth, neither minding his teeth.  
Carnelia found himself in the most severe pangs ever experienced, yet the most horrifying thing of it all, by this point, was that he retained full consciousness--the pain grew and he could not escape it through fainting. His twisted and strangled phallus was now being stretched and chewed up, bleeding profusely; and the daemoniac humanoid which had been biting at his upper body now proceeded to tear through his neck--to his throat. In seconds much blood was lost, enough so that a welcome, detached state of shock took hold of him. He remembers watching with his one eye as the blindfolded whores extracted his entrails and played with them over his immovable body, leaving him after hours of this; the vile lord Fagrath then reappeared and spoke triumphantly;  
  
“Though you are crippled and mutilated mortally, you can hear me still, and so I have proven the reality of my gift to you.”  
  
He sat beside and caressed Carnelia’s face, watching intently over the minutes which followed, wherein feeling and mobility were agonisingly restored.

 

**X**

  
It had been only a couple of hours since Carnelia’s body recovered from torturous, disfiguring injuries which could not even reward him with death, and he had been cleaned and re-clothed--yet already his abuse resumed. The cruel lord of the flying fortress had taken him to the throne, making him sit on his lap--on his erect phallus--as the elder concubines, their sight restored and shackles removed, looked on patronisingly. Mashirou had brought with him a large specimen of the grotesque, phallic vegetables--this one could reach up to his chest from the ground--and, kneeling on a cushion beside it, began caressing it, eventually pulling it down to his face and suckling at the yellow fluid which would ceaselessly discharge from the tip of it.  
  
Carnelia was stricken with nausea as he beheld this, and his buttocks smacked against Fagrath’s lap yet again; he was being pulled up and down upon the lord’s member, which expanded painfully inside. Mizagi departed from Mashirou’s side to kneel before the throne, proceeding then to fellate the exposed member of Carnelia--which had taken to bouncing shamelessly each time he was impaled. Mashirou began shewing signs of intoxication after minutes of consuming the plant’s secretions, and had tilted the pot onto its side in trying to sit on it--even so, his rear soon swallowed one-fifth of the abomination, and he was ecstatic; he crawled towards the throne until his tongue met Mizagi’s anus, where it teased and prodded.  
  
Anon, Carnelia’s phallus filled Mizagi’s mouth, and Mashirou’s his arse; Mashirou yet persisted in riding the crude fungal protrusion, which erupted in his rectum as the orgy continued. Fagrath’s member had now so engorged that Carnelia could feel his guts ache, and blood had begun to seep from his arse, but he did nothing but moan and hold up his skirt so that Mizagi could suck him deeply whilst his own arse was pounded by Mashirou--the latter having also impaled himself nearly half upon the enormous stipe. Fagrath suddenly pushed himself off the throne, knocking Carnelia onto all fours, his prick then felt in the back of Mizagi’s throat; Carnelia was being fucked over Mizagi’s back, facing Mashirou, who began to kiss him.  
  
For a while the four copulated thus, and eventually Carnelia climaxed, his seed flowing down Mizagi’s gullet; Fagrath soon followed suit, spraying deep inside Carnelia; and Mashirou, whose abdomen had become bloated with the fungi’s noxious ejaculate, did not take long to squirt inside Mizagi, whose own prick in turn drivelled upon the floor. The four disentangled slowly, exhaustion on all their breaths; Mashirou struggled to extricate from his rectum the large, leathery fungus, receiving aid to that end from Mizagi--its final removal resulting in a copious stream of ichor from Mashirou’s twitching arsehole.  
Concernedly, Mizagi queried of Mashirou; “Why have you let that thing fill you so? If you do not die from it, you will surely suffer immensely.”  
  
“That may be so,” Mashirou replied, “but after seeing it splay the entrails of so many mortals, my curiosity as to how it felt became absurd and bothersome!”  
  
Mizagi, clearly annoyed, said nothing further on the subject. Carnelia, who had remained gagged, did not stress himself to try and utter a sound, and turned, collapsing atop Fagrath, who was smaller than he and none too pleased.

“Do not fall asleep on top of me!” he nervously commanded.  
  
Rather, the intents of Carnelia--who was still enraptured, his phallus erect--were much darker for the attractive vampire lord whom his weight so burdened.  
  
The fallen prince of an already forgotten kingdom handled Fagrath roughly by the ankles, lifting his rear.  
  
“Stop this!” he squealed, “You will be punished!”  
  
Carnelia payed no mind, bringing his engorged member parallel with the lord’s perineum and thrusting there betwixt lifted thighs which were pressed tightly together. Fagrath protested over the ensuing minutes, even as his own phallus inflated again from the sensation of Carnelia’s rubbing between his thighs and prodding his scrotum.  
  
“Can you believe this scene?!” Mizagi exclaimed, turning towards Mashirou, who was silently clutching his abdomen, apparently suffering from cramps.  
Worry again coloured Mizagi’s countenance; “So it’s happening already...” he said, moving closer to Mashirou’s side in a comforting gesture.  
  
Carnelia’s member slipped lower each time he pulled it from Fagrath’s thighs, eventually finding the anus as its point of entry, at which point the vampire lord loosed a string of weak, immature sobs accompanied by tears--for it was the first time since before he could recall that he himself had been penetrated so. The new concubine plunged his master’s depths vigorously, soon reaching climax for the second time that day; he ejaculated a great quantity into Fagrath’s rectum, whence some of it gushed upon removal of the phallus.  
  
Following this act of absurd unruliness, Carnelia lost strength in his limbs, worn as they were, and was shortly overpowered by the boy he had just raped--his undying lord and roundabout saviour.  
  
“A mistake!!" Fagrath began, “Granting you immortality was a mistake!"

  
After staggering to his feet, come still drivelling from his arse, he took to stamping Carnelia’s limbs until some ominous ‘cracks’ were heard.  
Mashirou had begun to cry profusely, but in no relation to the injury to his peer he beheld--for he would have thought it fully deserved, had he been much capable of thought at the time--and a curious bulge became apparent on his abdomen.

 

**XI**

  
Carnelia, fully conscious, and brought to tears by disabling injuries, was propped up on the throne. Fagrath stood over him, looking intently at Mashirou in his agony;

“These are birth pangs!” said the lord, and he grabbed hold of Mashirou’s shoulders, lifting him to enfeebled legs and leading him before Carnelia, who was horrified by his state.  
  
Mashirou appeared quite sick, and had taken to drooling like a flat-faced hound as the pupils of his eyes became elusive--something was moving under the front of his uniform.  
  
The plug was removed from Carnelia’s mouthpiece then; and he, confused as ever, resigned himself to observing Mashirou’s developments in horror.  
Then came the most shrill, heart-rending scream ever loosed, made doubly terrible by the manner in which it was cut off by black-red vomit; and with that, a singular, bloody protuberance tore through Mashirou’s abdomen, and the fabric of his clothing! A familiar sight by now, it was no less repellent--that large, phallic corpse-fungus which had been known nowhere but within the gardens of this nightmare fortress.  
  
The thing fattened and extended with amazing rapidity, so that it did not have much space to travel when Fagrath, finding its timing more than adequate for his sadistic purposes, guided it through the ring in Carnelia’s mouthpiece. The prince-cum-whore could do nothing but despair as the perpetually-erupting harbinger of unfathomed agony pushed its way down his throat.


End file.
